


Let's Find the Key and Turn this Engine On

by dreamlittleyo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Hunting, Non-Explicit Sex, Roadhouse, Romance, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000, Wordcount: 5.000-15.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-17
Updated: 2011-04-17
Packaged: 2017-10-18 05:32:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/185552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John brings Bill Harvelle home, but the man will never hunt again. Jo is a stubborn force of nature, and no one's going to stop her from living exactly the life she wants.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Let's Find the Key and Turn this Engine On

**Author's Note:**

  * For [my_sam_dean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/my_sam_dean/gifts).



**I.**

In 1997, John Winchester broke his second most important rule—the one that said he never worked with other hunters—and teamed up with a man named Bill Harvelle.

Bill was an up-front sort of guy, a straight shooter that dealt with John on the level, and more importantly he was a friend. John didn't have many friends, had even fewer people he could truly trust, and Bill Harvelle was one of those few.

They both had their eye on the same job, and it only made sense to team up. Just this once.

Ellen's eyes were grim as she saw them off. Not ominous, just worried. The eyes of a woman watching her man go off to war and not naïve enough to tell herself there was nothing to worry about.

She didn't say anything out loud, but when she turned those eyes on John, he could read her meaning clearly enough. ' _Take care of him_ ,' that look admonished. ' _Whatever you do, you bring him back to us_.'

John nodded before he turned away.

 

\- — - — - — -

It was no one's fault that the job went wrong.

John knew he would spend the rest of his life wondering: was the trap too sloppy, did he spring it too soon, did he do something to tip their hand and give away the game? But when he looked at the facts, looked at the harsh, cold reality even through the lens of 20/20 hindsight, he couldn't see any other path.

When Bill finally came out of the coma, he remembered just enough of what happened to agree.

 

\- — - — - — -

Bill would never walk again, and no matter what John's rational mind might tell him, he would never quite forgive himself for that.

Spinal injuries were tricky, the doctors said. They'd tried to explain that Bill was lucky: to retain the mobility he had, to be alive at all. To've woken up when the odds were stacked a thousand to one against him.

John tried to keep things in perspective, but it was difficult. Every time he closed his eyes he saw Ellen, tense and desperate at her husband's bedside. Struggling to keep it together, to keep her face blank and strong for Jo—Jo, who had just spent her twelfth birthday sitting in a drab, rigid hospital chair wondering if her father would ever open his eyes again.

Even after Bill woke up—after the physical therapy began and the doctors started piecing together what was left of Bill's life—John couldn't forget the sight of Jo and Ellen in that room.

"Thank you," Ellen said the day Bill was set to be discharged and sent home. Jo stood behind her, quiet and subdued like John had never seen her before this damn hospital, and he felt suddenly sick to his stomach.

He didn't deserve thanks so much as a quick kick to the kidneys.

 

\- — - — - — -

John stayed away from the Roadhouse for more than a year.

He kept hunting, kept moving, kept protecting his boys the only way he knew how—by training them to fight every enemy imaginable.

But eventually—maybe inevitably—he found his way back to Harvelle's.

His reception was warmer than he expected.

Ellen answered, cocking her head to the side in surprise when she realized just who it was that had knocked on her back door.

"Winchester," she said. "Was starting to think we'd never see you again. Come on in."

John stepped across the threshold, eyes darting momentarily to the wheelchair ramp that ran parallel to the steps outside. When she closed the door, he turned and gave her a careful smile.

"How is everyone?" he asked.

"Well enough," said Ellen, returning the smile. The expression sat far more naturally on her face than his. "How are Dean and Sam?"

"They're good," said John, and left it at that. It wasn't an entire answer—hell, it wasn't even entirely honest, what with Dean having trouble at this newest school and Sam surly at them both for uprooting him in the middle of the school year.

"Hope you've been staying out of trouble," says Ellen when the silence persists.

"Mostly," John admits with a sheepish scuff of his boots. "Been looking for answers, but not finding much."

"That why you're here?" Ellen asked cautiously.

Since he lost the use of his legs, Bill had become the man to see about any kind of information—even partial paralysis hadn't been enough to take him out of hunting entirely, and everyone knew it. Bill Harvelle was the man to see when a hunter's leads dried up.

John nodded, watching her eyes for the slightest hint of hostility. All he found was a quiet resignation.

"Come on," she said, gesturing him further inside with a meaningful tilt of her head. "He's in his study."

They passed Jo in the hall, and she answered his gruff, "Hi, kiddo," with a small, tight half-smile. She had to be around thirteen by now.

"Don't mind her," said Ellen, sounding tired and exasperated. "She's entered the surly years."

"Guess that's good to know," said John, for lack of any better response.

When they reached the study, Ellen gave him a nudge through the door and disappeared back the way they'd come.

"Winchester!" Bill exclaimed, startled at the sight of him. "I'll be double-damned, I was starting to figure you'd never come back!" His eyes were genuinely friendly, warm and surprised and communicating clearly that John might just be an idiot for staying away.

"Been busy," John hedged with a guilty, sheepish look.

"Busy keeping track of those boys, I'd bet."

"That," said John, shrugging vaguely. "And other things."

"Sure, sure. Get your cryptic ass in here already, would you? No need to hover by the door like a stray cat. Would you like a drink?"

"No, thanks," said John. They both knew he was here for more important business.

"Well, then," said Bill, leaning forward onto his broad, wooden desk. "From the look on your face, and the fact that you're here, I'd guess you've got questions you need help answering."

John nodded, claiming the rickety chair on the opposite side of the desk. "That's putting it mildly," he admitted. "I've hit a wall, and I've hit it hard. I just don't know where else to look."

"This about the demon?" Bill asked carefully. He knew as well as anyone what had happened to John's wife. Hunters talked, after all. Even the discreet ones.

"Yes," John answered, face a cautious blank that earned him a quizzical look.

"But there's more," Bill realized aloud.

John nodded. And then even though he had already decided to do this, he hesitated. He'd vowed early on never to tell anyone what he was now about to admit to Bill Harvelle. He had no choice now, and he could think of no safer confidante, but the moment still gave him pause.

"John, what is it?" Bill pressed, smooth and low. His voice was calming, and John breathed in and shook himself. He was in it this far. Nothing left but to take the plunge.

"It's about Sam," he said, and watched Bill's eyes go wide.

 

\- — - — - — -

He told Bill everything he knew, and even that felt like frustratingly little. He'd long since figured out that Mary had made a deal—a fact that chilled him to the soul and made him feel inexplicably dead inside—and after everything that had happened, it seemed an inevitable conclusion that the deal had something to do with his youngest son.

But that was where John's practical knowledge stopped, and forced him to admit he needed help.

"You can't tell anyone," he told Bill edgily. "Not a soul. This stays between us."

"Have to tell Ellen," Bill said. "No secrets. Plus, she helps me research."

"But no one else?" John pressed.

"You have my word on it," said Bill.

 

\- — - — - — -

It wasn't until John's third visit, some several months later, that Jo actually spoke to him.

"You have kids, don't you?" she asked him, hopping up onto the kitchen counter to perch beside him as he leaned there with a half empty mug of coffee in his hand. Caffeinating before he hit the road.

"Two boys," he said, curious what had brought on the question. "Sam and Dean. Sam's just a little older than you. Why do you ask?"

"Just wondering," said Jo. She swung her legs back and forth, kicking her bare heels against the cupboards beneath the counter. "Why don't you ever bring them with you?"

There was something knowing and intelligent in her eyes—something that made him arch his eyebrows and pause to evaluate her as a potential threat. He had to remind himself she was only fourteen—there was already a dangerous air of maturity and potential surrounding her.

"It's complicated," he hedged. Somehow he knew lying to her outright would be a bad idea. Keeping it vague seemed like a preferable alternative.

"Is it because of Sam?" she asked. When the question caught his complete attention, fast and sharp as whiplash, she shrugged unapologetically and said, "I was listening in. You stayed gone for, like, a year after Dad got hurt. I was worried that if you were back, it might have something to do with him."

"It didn't," John said. He could feel an edgy unease beneath his skin.

"Well, duh," said Jo. " _Now_ I know that. Don't worry. I haven't told anyone, and I don't plan to. Not even Dad knows I know."

"You mean that?" John asked, trying not to sound dubious. "Can you give me your word?"

"I promise," said Jo. With the speed of a scattered streak of lightning, her expression turned somber. "It's not my secret, you know?"

John nodded, took another sip from his cooling mug, and made a mental note never to underestimate this girl.

 

\- — - — - — -

Every scrap of information Bill found had John coming back for more, even as the scraps started forming a picture John didn't want to see.

He didn't know how to reconcile what he was learning with the surly, rebellious teenager his youngest son had become. Sam wanted to play soccer, wanted to learn photography, wanted to stay in one place long enough to date and party and try out for the school play.

John didn't have the slightest idea how to tell him _why_ he couldn't have those things, and the friction was fast becoming unbearable. Even if he'd known how, he wasn't sure he'd have been able to explain. The knowledge was a painful, palpable weight on his own shoulders. He didn't know if he could put that weight on Sam and still be able to live with himself.

And no matter how bitterly he and Sam fought, John could never put the word 'Antichrist' in the same train of thought as his son.

 

\- — - — - — -

When Sam announced that he was going to Stanford, it should have been a relief. The boy was finding a way out of this terrifying world, looking to build himself an actual life, and on some level John could acknowledge that this was a good thing.

But at Sam's announcement, the first reaction John felt was overwhelming terror. Not just fear—normal rush of adrenaline and protective instincts kicking into gear—no, this was a terror like John had never experienced. It froze like an unforgiving spear of ice in his chest, caught his breath in his throat and tore his precariously guarded calm to shreds.

Of course Sam took his reaction the wrong way, but for a long moment John couldn't even remember how to speak. He felt both his sons watching him, Sam's face furious and Dean's completely shattered, and felt completely helpless against the turning tide.

Fuck, if Sam left them now, the boy would be alone. Completely unprotected. He'd be a stationary target with no line of defense, and all those things John had spent Sam's whole life avoiding—moving town to town, state to state just to stay one step ahead—would catch up, and John wouldn't be there to watch Sam's back.

Logically, he knew now was the time to tell Sam everything. Both boys deserved to know, and maybe it would change Sam's mind.

But by now Sam was angry, was attacking him with a tone of voice that never failed to rile John up, and the words coming out of John's mouth were the wrong ones. They were tinged with rage, hurtful weapons and accusations of betrayal. Sam responded in kind, of course—they'd always been able to ramp each other up like no one else—and Dean looked on with an expression that left John cold and sick to his stomach.

Three hours later, he couldn't even remember what he had said. All he had was the raging, guilty pit in his gut and the knowledge that he'd fucked up royally.

When he drove to Harvelle's Roadhouse a week and a half later—alone, because Dean wasn't speaking to him—he was still a barely contained mess.

 

\- — - — - — -

"Look, it's not your fault," Jo said. John eyed her with surprise, eyebrows high and his glass paused halfway to his mouth.

"How do you figure that?" he asked. They were in what had become their traditional places in the kitchen, him leaning against the small counter and her perched beside with her legs kicking casually out and back. "You don't even know what happened," he pointed out reasonably.

"I know Sam left for college," she said—John had told Ellen as much. "And I know you're not happy about it. And from the way you're glaring at that glass of water, I'd bet it wasn't a peaceful goodbye."

"That about sums it up," John admitted. "So how does that work out to not being my fault?"

Jo shrugged easily and said, "Kids and parents are supposed to fight. It's just the way things work. You fight, you walk away, you cool down, and then you start all over again."

"You fight with your dad?" John asked skeptically.

"Nah," said Jo. "But me and Mom? You should hear us when we get going. Doesn't mean we don't love each other."

"When did you get to be so smart?" John teased. Jo kicked him in the leg.

"I've always been smart," she said, smirking smugly. "You're just a stubborn old man who won't admit it."

"I'm not that old," John grumped, letting the easy banter distract him from the unpleasant weight of his thoughts.

"No," said Jo in a way that gave him pause. "I guess you're not."

John stared for a long moment, not entirely sure how to interpret her words or her cryptic tone. She was watching him carefully, obviously trying to gauge his reaction, and it was clear something was happening here. John just had no idea what.

As quickly as the moment had gone tense, it eased up again. Jo's expression brightened and softened, and she hopped down from the counter.

"Come on, old man," she teased. "Let's see if you can hold your own at pool. Just one game before you go."

John was sinkingly certain he didn't stand a chance, but he set down his glass and followed her anyway.

 

 

**II.**

For once it had nothing to do with Sam.

John was on a relatively normal job—alone, because Dean was down with a broken foot that was damn well going to get a chance to heal right—and Bill happened to have the best collection of spell books this side of the Mississippi River.

"You ever heard of a Varkolak?" he asked as soon as he walked into Bill's cluttered study.

"Sure," said Bill, steering himself over to his desk and setting a pile of small, intricate-looking books down on the corner. "Why? You after one?"

"I think so," said John. "But I need to know more to be sure. And if I'm right? I need to know how to kill it."

"I can help you with that," said Bill.

"I know," John smirked.

 

\- — - — - — -

He was surprised when he stepped back into the hall three hours later and nearly ran into Jo. Literally—he almost tripped right over her he was so surprised by her proximity. At this hour, Ellen was out front setting up the bar for opening, and John wasn't expecting anyone else.

"What are you doing here?" he asked.

"I _live_ here," Jo said, practically glowering. There was tension in her shoulders, like the girl was spoiling for a fight, so John backed carefully away. He raised his hands in front of him, palms out, in what he hoped was a gesture of peace.

"Sorry," he said—best practices to lead in with an apology when she had that look on her face. "Just… It's the middle of the week. And October. Shouldn't you be in a chemistry lab or something?"

He still braced for an explosion, but apparently his tone was placating enough to appease the threatening storm before him. Jo cocked her head to the side and regarded him silently for a moment, then finally deflated and sighed.

"I finished the last of my chemistry requirements last year. And my bio requirements, too. And pretty much every other general requirement they had. And then they asked me what I wanted to major in, and I realized I had zero idea what I was even doing there."

"So you quit," John realized aloud.

"So I quit," Jo confirmed easily. There was an unmistakable note of challenge in her voice.

"I bet your parents love that," said John, finally moving further down the hall—towards the kitchen. Jo fell into step beside him.

"Dad's disappointed," Jo admits quietly. "Mom's furious. Both of them keep trying to change my mind. I don't think they get just how much that's _not_ gonna happen."

"No chance in hell?" John guessed, stepping through the open doorway and helping himself to the Harvelle's refrigerator. Jo hopped up onto her usual perch on the counter—or rather, she hoisted herself an inch or two up off the ground and sat. Her legs had gotten impossibly long, and for a moment that revelation gave John pause.

"That whole 'normal college life' thing just doesn't feel right. And I can't fake it just because my parents want that for me, right? It wouldn't be fair, and it sure as hell wouldn't make me happy."

John leaned one hip against the counter and cracked open a can of sprite. He regarded her without responding.

"You're in a good mood today," Jo noted archly, and John couldn't tell if it was a deliberate attempt to change the subject. "You must be researching for a hunt." It was a pretty sound observation—it was no secret from Jo that researching the murky waters surrounding his family made John cranky as hell.

"Might be," John admitted easily. "What's it to you?"

A strange look crossed Jo's face at the question—hesitant expectation for a split second that John might've missed if he hadn't been looking quite so closely. She masked it in a hurry, donning a poker face so impenetrable it left John blinking in surprise.

She had barely opened her mouth to utter a responding syllable when he realized where she must be going with this.

"No," he said, cutting her off before she could even try.

"You don't even know what I was about to say," she muttered, but her tone was already resigned.

"I'm not taking you with me. Hunting's dangerous. No way I'm getting you mixed up in all that."

"You don't have to treat me like a kid," she sulked. "I turn twenty-one in less than a month."

"You're still not coming with me." John leveled his best no-nonsense look at her. The one that sometimes even got his stubborn Sammy to stop pestering him for something. "Your mama would kill me, and then your dad would find a way to bring me back to life so she could do it again."

"They don't have to know," Jo pointed out. When she said it like that it almost sounded reasonable.

John still knew better.

"Even if we take them completely out of the equation," he said, setting his can down on the counter and stepping closer. "I wouldn't put you in that kind of danger willingly. I can't, kiddo."

For a moment she looked furious—hackles raised and eyes wide with fire. Ready to fight. But he met her stare head-on, and eventually her shoulders slumped.

"You suck," she informed him darkly.

But she let it go, and for that John was grateful.

 

\- — - — - — -

Ellen found him four hours later, and her quiet, "Thank you," caught him by surprise.

John nearly startled visibly—he was loading his truck and hadn't realized anyone was behind him.

"For what?" he asked neutrally, tossing one last bag of supplies into the truck bed and turning to face her.

"Don't be coy, Winchester," she said with a smirk. "It doesn't suit."

John paused a moment, watched her with cautious eyes, and finally shrugged noncommittally. "I didn't figure anyone was listening in," he confessed unnecessarily.

"I needed to be sure she wasn't talking you into anything stupid," said Ellen. "Thanks for not letting me down."

When John drove away that night, Jo wasn't there to say goodbye.

 

\- — - — - — -

He shouldn't have been surprised to pull up in front of Joplin, Missouri's cheapest motel and find Jo already waiting there for him.

She had one bag with her, slung casually over her shoulder, and a cocky smile on her face. She followed him into his room without waiting for an invitation, and tossed her bag onto the foot of his bed.

He'd only gotten a single room. She wouldn't be staying.

"Whatever bus brought you into town, you can turn around and get right back on it."

"I borrowed a car," she said, and from her tone John honestly couldn't tell if 'borrowed' was a euphemism for something a little less legal. He sure as hell hoped not, though he had the utmost confidence in her ability to hotwire a vehicle.

"Then you can drive it back the way you came," he growled, picking up her bag and shoving it back into her hands. "You're not staying here."

"That's a hell of a conundrum," Jo bit back. "Since I'm not leaving, either."

For a taut, impenetrable moment, John had no idea how to respond to that.

"Besides," said Jo. "I'm here now. And believe it or not, I can help you. I'm not some incompetent civilian."

"And I'm not taking you in with me. So you can go home, or you can stay in this room. Those are your only options."

Jo actually laughed at that, sharp and short. Disbelief echoed in the sound, and she stared at him like he'd sprouted a patch of dandelions on top of his head.

"You don't honestly believe I'll just stay put, do you?" she demanded. Her eyebrows arched high with skepticism.

"I could tie you up and lock you in the bathroom," he threatened. He wasn't really kidding.

"Kinky," said Jo. "But let's be honest with each other, old man." She dumped her bag back onto the foot of the bed and took a challenging step toward him. "You don't _really_ think you'll be able to hold me here. I can slip any trap you set for me, and we both know it."

John _didn't_ know it, but he believed it readily enough.

"I'll be back later," he muttered, breaking eye contact and moving for the door. He grabbed his coat along the way and slipped the room key into his pocket.

"Where are you going?" Jo demanded of his retreating back.

"Out," was all the answer he gave. "Try not to do anything stupid while I'm gone." He stepped outside and slammed the door shut before she could make any further response.

 

\- — - — - — -

He walked six blocks before he took out his cell phone and dialed a familiar number.

The phone rang twice, a third time, and finally came a click and Ellen's voice on the other end of the line.

"Harvelle's Roadhouse."

"Ellen, it's me," said John. He could already feel a headache forming behind his eyes. "You know your daughter's here in Missouri?"

"I kinda figured," Ellen said, after just enough of a pause to convey her displeasure. "Any chance you can kick her ass back home?"

"What do you think?" John asked, rolling his eyes even though she couldn't see it. His voice conveyed the sentiment effectively enough.

Ellen sighed, low and frustrated, and said, "I think you already tried, and you wouldn't be calling me if it had worked."

"Sorry," he said, even though he had nothing to apologize for. _He_ hadn't raised the girl to be as stubborn and willful as her daddy. _He_ hadn't invited her along. Hell, he hadn't even told her where he was headed. She must've snaked his research file from Bill's desk and returned it when no one was looking.

"You keep her safe," Ellen's voice admonished him softly. They both knew that at this point it was all she could ask. John pretended not to hear the terror that clung like cough syrup to the words.

"I won't make any empty promises, Ellen," he said as gently as he could. "But I swear I'll keep her close."

"You do that," said Ellen, and ended the call.

\- — - — - — -

Jo didn't get hurt on the hunt.

But John did.

It wasn't as bad as it could've been. A twisted ankle that might have been sprained but wasn't, and a concussion. His head throbbed like a bitch as Jo drove them back to his room.

"Hey," she snapped, smacking him in the shoulder at the first hint that he might be dozing off. "Stay with me, old man. I don't want you sleeping yet."

"Sleeping's fine," John muttered, words slurring more than he'd like. "It's the not waking up later that's a problem."

"Yeah, well, you're still not sleeping yet. Not until we're back at the motel, where I can dump a bucket of ice water on your head if you don't wake up like clockwork every twenty minutes."

John thought that sounded downright unreasonable, but his head hurt too much to argue the point.

"Gonna have to talk to me, then," he grumped. "'m fuckin' sleepy."

"For god's sake, we're almost there, just… tell me again why you thought jumping in front of the damn thing was a good idea."

John could tell she was just trying to work him up, and it almost succeeded. Would have had him riled and ranting already if he weren't so damn tired. Jesus, couldn't the girl drive any faster? How many more fields of farmland could they possibly drive past before they finally reached the small swell of lights that taunted him from the distance?

"Christ, you really _do_ feel like shit, don't you," Jo murmured when John's silence persisted even after her attempt to pick a fight. "Just hang on, okay? We really are almost there."

 

\- — - — - — -

Jo was true to her word, and spent all night waking him every twenty minutes.

It wasn't particularly restful for either of them. People just weren't meant to sleep at twenty minute intervals. It was all the more uncomfortable for the fact that they had to share the bed. John had figured on getting Jo her own room when they got back to the motel, but that wasn't going to work.

Having her pound on the wall at him every twenty minutes wouldn't cut it, which meant they had to share—there weren't any double rooms available.

John tried to keep to his side of the bed, but every time he opened his eyes he found himself right back in the middle, steadily encroaching on Jo's half of the mattress.

She blinked at him with tired eyes, but didn’t seem to think it warranted comment.

 

\- — - — - — -

Jo went out for coffee in the morning, and John took the opportunity to call Bill.

"Everything went smoothly," he said, figuring it wasn't quite as bad as an outright lie. Jo hadn't gotten so much as a paper cut, after all, which was what really mattered.

"That's not the way I heard it," said Bill, and John almost swore into the phone.

"Oh yeah?" he said instead. "How'd _you_ hear it?"

"I heard you're an idiot who threw yourself into the big bad monster's path even though everything was perfectly under control," said Bill. His tone was almost teasing. "Which I appreciate, by the way," he added.

"Bill—," said John, already prepared with explanations and rationalizations.

"I mean it," Bill cut him off. "I know my daughter. I know what 'perfectly under control' can mean. And if she's gonna be out there at all, I'm glad she's with you."

"I don't think I'll be able to convince her to go home now that it's over," John admitted guardedly.

"You just keep her safe," said Bill, and the words felt like a two-ton stone settling on John's chest. "That's all we can ask." John still couldn't make any promises, and the extra weight of responsibility felt suddenly stifling.

He hadn't asked for this.

"I'll do my best," he said, and felt the world close in like water over his head.

 

\- — - — - — -

They needed to stay put for three more days to be sure their efforts were successful.

John made it through two without telling Jo to go home. On the third, he finally had to try, though he wasn't surprised when she blew up at him instead of accepting his advice.

"Fuck you," was all she said at first.

When she grabbed her jacket and moved to retreat, John was quick to put himself in her path and block her escape. Jo stared at him in disbelief for a moment, then finally threw her jacket to the floor with a frustrated growl.

"First you won't let me stay, then you won't let me _leave_." She crossed her arms and lifted her chin defiantly. "Make up your mind or get out of my way, but stop messing with my head."

"Jo, would you just stand still and think for a minute?"

"What do you _want_?"

"I want you to _listen_ to me, god damn it," John barked, louder than he intended.

"As if I have any other choice at the moment," Jo pointed out curtly.

"Hunting is dangerous."

"No shit."

"Your parents love you, kiddo," John pressed on, ignoring the scathing glare in Jo's eyes. "Do you have any idea what it would do to them if you didn't come back?"

"Yeah," said Jo. "I do. Believe it or not, I've actually thought about this. But what the hell am I supposed to do? Sit in some stupid, shallow dollhouse, serving drinks and pretending that's where I want to be?"

John didn't really have a response to that, and when Jo stepped forward into his personal space, there was victory in her eyes, fiery and confident.

"That's not me," she said. Her voice was barely above a whisper. "That's never _been_ me. Why do you think I dropped out of college?"

"Jo," John said, voice strained. She was standing too close, and the air between them felt thick with something too much like potential.

"Did you know I got put on academic probation for fighting?" she asked. "Or that they kicked me out of the dorms for violating their weapons policy? Or that I flunked my biochem final because I was up all night putting an angry spirit to rest? I forgot to set my alarm."

"So college was a bad fit," John acknowledged softly. "That doesn't mean _this_ is the only alternative."

"It is for me," said Jo. The words broke John's heart, but there was nothing he could say to convince her otherwise.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. The utterance made her eyes flash dangerously, and she stepped even closer.

"I don't want pity from you," she snarled.

"Then what do you want?"

"To go with you," she said without missing a beat.

John couldn't answer past the sudden lump in his throat, and after waiting too long without getting a reply, Jo picked up her jacket, shoved past him and stormed out of the room.

 

\- — - — - — -

John's wiser instincts told him to give her space.

She was angry. She was hurt. She might just hit him in the face if he cornered her right now, with her frustrations running high and her eyes flashing in a way that signaled 'danger' and 'high voltage' and any number of serious warnings.

But John sometimes had trouble listening to his wiser instincts, especially when his chest was busy screaming at him to make things right, and against his better judgment he followed her outside.

Jo was halfway across the parking lot already, well past his truck and nearly to a tall red Honda that he suspected was the one she'd come in—the determined way she was moving towards it, focused and intent, made it seem the likeliest possibility.

John had to jog to catch up with her, and once he did she barely spared him a quick, cutting glance.

"Leave me alone," she said. Her voice was hot with contained fury. Her trek across the parking lot had obviously not cooled her down.

"Can we just start over?" John asked. He was pretty sure he already knew the answer, but he was here now. Vested. He had to at least try.

"What would that accomplish?" Jo asked him, stopping abruptly in her tracks.

John took an extra two steps past her before following suit, and then turned to face her. He stood between her and the car, could practically feel the reflected sunlight off its side warming his back.

"Maybe nothing," John admitted. "But let's try it anyway. _Why_ do you want to come with me?"

"We've been over this at least three times," she pointed out. But some of the fight left her shoulders, and she sounded more tired than angry.

"No," said John. "We've been over why you want to hunt. Why do you want to hunt with _me_?"

The question seemed to give her pause, and she squinted at him through the sunlight, considering carefully and regarding him with a new somber weight.

"Because I trust you," she finally said. "Because you're good at it." And then, after a pause that made John's chest feel uncomfortably tight, she added, "Because you brought my dad home."

"I brought him home crippled," John pointed out, feeling a little sick to his stomach. "I always figured you should hate me for that." He could remember too vividly the image of a twelve-year-old girl sitting at her daddy's bedside, looking scared and betrayed and crushed.

"Maybe for awhile," Jo admitted. Her eyes fixed him with a cryptic look, and she stepped forward. "I blamed you for what happened for a long time. But I'm a smart girl, John. And eventually I grew up, and figured out how much worse it could've been. Maybe if you hadn't been there, he'd never have come home at all."

She had him there.

"That doesn't mean I'll be able to protect _you_ ," said John. "People die doing this job. All the goddamn time. If anything happened to you on my watch—"

"Shh," said Jo, taking another step forward. It put her close enough to press her finger to his lips, to shut him up mid-sentence, and her touch left him almost dizzy. He meant to say more, at least he thought he did, which was why he reached up and closed his fingers around her hand—pulled it away from his face and marveled at how tiny it was compared to his.

"Jo," he said, feeling his stomach flip over with a nervousness he couldn't place.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, Jo smiled. "Shut up, old man," she said, then leaned in close.

And kissed him.

It was a brief kiss, but when she drew back she looked breathless. She blinked at him for a moment, and then her eyes went oncoming-freight-train wide and she uttered a quiet, "Oh. Fuck."

Which about summed things up as far as John was concerned, but apparently he was incapable of letting it go at that. When Jo moved to back away, John reached for her. He caught her arm in his hand, his grip settling firmly just above her elbow, before she even completed that first step.

Their gazes dropped in perfect unison to stare at the single point of contact between them, and John couldn't quite believe that was _his_ hand. What was it doing there? What did he think was going on here that stopping Jo's retreat seemed like a good idea? The girl had just kissed him, for god's sake. The smartest thing he could do now was let her go, give them both time and space to regroup.

But his hand wasn't getting the memo. It stayed right where it was, gripping tighter than it should, no matter how strongly he admonished it to let go.

When he finally raised his eyes, he found Jo watching him. Her gaze clouded, her expression intense and open and curious.

She didn't pull away.

Again John's wiser instincts had no say on what his body actually did. He already held her by the arm—all it took was a guiding nudge to pull Jo towards him. A quick twist and surge to crowd her against the red side paneling of her borrowed car and kiss her right back.

She moved against him like fire, pulling him closer with rushing hands and burying her fingers in his hair. He traced her lower lip with his tongue, testing the waters, and nearly groaned when her mouth opened to meet him. The first touch of her tongue was anything but shy, and John fast felt his blood pooling south.

He jerked himself away so abruptly his head spun, and from the look on Jo's face they were both equally winded.

They still stood too close—touching in all the right places—and John had no idea how to disentangle himself from her hold. Hell, he wasn't even sure he wanted to, but what other choice did he have? They certainly couldn't continue this to its utterly illogical conclusion.

But then Jo kissed him again, third time's the charm, and his head spun with how badly he wanted—things he'd never given conscious thought to before, at least as far as Jo was concerned. Her hands felt sure and steady, the heat of her body impossible and enticing, and John found himself moving without consciously meaning to.

It was impossible to tell who lead the way—hard to maintain a solid sense of direction like this, making out like goddamn teenagers in the middle of the parking lot—but somehow they ended up back in the room.

The door slammed heavily closed, and then her hands were at the half-buttoned collar of his shirt, yanking it open and away—then at the hem of his dark t-shirt, tugging impatiently. They tussled through the process of removing every scrap of clothing, until finally it was just _them_ standing in the middle of the room. Just heat and touch and the maddening pressure of her soft mouth along his skin.

John buried his face against her throat, stifling a groan and tasting, catching at the skin just beneath her jaw with his teeth. He bit her, gentle and experimental, and the gesture made her arch—drew a pleased sound from low in her chest.

John _did_ groan then, heavy and low, and then he picked her up and carried her to the bed.

 

\- — - — - — -

John Winchester woke to dawn with the odd and unfamiliar sense that he had gotten an excellent night's sleep—his first in years—followed closely by the muddled realization that he wasn't alone. There was a warm weight against his side, the unmistakable line of an arm draped over his waist, and the delicate tickle of long hair across his neck and chest.

There were certainly worse revelations to wake up to.

His brain cleared quickly from the muddy vestiges of sleep, and the dots reconnected themselves into a coherent whole. They reminded him—in vivid color images—precisely _why_ he wasn't alone in this bed.

"Good morning," he rumbled, blinking his eyes at the ceiling. His voice felt raspy with sleep, deeper than normal, and he almost didn't recognize the sound of it. He didn't know if Jo was actually awake in his arms.

"Morning," she responded, which answered his question quickly enough. She didn't sound the slightest bit sleepy.

Silence settled between them, and it wasn't the easy, comfortable kind. It was more the kind that stretched and pulled and left a body wondering who would make the first inevitable move toward admitting that it was all a terrible mistake. Jo's weight in his arms still felt inexplicably good, but John couldn't pretend he was doing anything besides waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"Wow," Jo finally murmured, shattering the silence like a prism. "Awkward."

And that made John laugh, though damned if he had any idea what in this situation could be described as funny.

"This was probably a bad idea," said John, figuring he might as well be the one to take the plunge.

"No shit," said Jo, but there was a hint of quiet humor in her voice. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking on John's part. She _did_ feel pretty fantastic in his arms, soft and warm in all the right places, and it was making him want to call for an instant replay, bad idea or not.

Which was a thought he really needed to _not_ be having, especially not now. Christ, Bill was going to kill him. And then Ellen was going to kill him. And then John would have to find his own gun and give himself a stern talking to, because this was beyond the realm of not-okay.

There was 'off limits', and then there was Jo Harvelle. John Winchester wasn't even supposed to look, never mind all the touching he'd done last night.

' _Fuck_ ,' he thought.

And even so, he still couldn't bring himself to move.

"Would you stop it?" Jo muttered. She shifted against him, brushing some of her hair aside—presumably out of her face—and then settled back in again with a casual ease that didn't feel at all like a front.

"Stop what?" John asked. He was still reasonably sure he hadn't moved.

"Freaking out," said Jo. "Seriously. The world's not gonna end on account of us getting a little carried away last night."

"I'd call it more than a little carried away," John pointed out, not unreasonably.

"Fine," said Jo, and John could practically hear her rolling her eyes. "A _lot_ carried away. Whatever. It's still not worth freaking out over."

John wanted to ask her how she could say that so confidently. He wanted to know how she could be truly, one-hundred-percent sure there was nothing to freak out about. But in a moment that felt like revelation, he realized it didn't matter.

She wasn't freaking out. Why should he?

It wasn't like there would be any repeat performances. Once they were out of this bed, clothed and back to normal, they could continue on as if nothing had happened. A soft twinge of disappointment tightened his chest at the thought, but he knew there was no other way this could go. He'd have enough trouble looking Bill and Ellen in the eye as it was.

Jo sighed loudly and finally shifted away from him, slipping out from beneath the sheet and rising, sliding toward the edge of the bed.

"I need a shower," she said, and when she stood without so much as reaching for a discarded shirt, John somehow failed to avert his eyes.

He watched as she took the seven short steps between bed and bathroom. When she reached the doorframe, she turned to regard him.

"You coming or what?" she asked.

And, god help him, John did.

 

\- — - — - — -

By the end of the day, one last cautionary ritual told them the Varkolak really _was_ down for good. There was nothing to keep them in Joplin. They packed up their things, loaded their respective vehicles, and then walked together down Twentieth Street for a quick dinner before hitting the road.

"Promise you'll come pick me up _before_ your next hunt," Jo said as they stood by the 'Please Wait to be Seated' sign. Her tone conveyed a command, not a request.

"I promise," John repeated, with a minimum of reluctance but a whole lot of trepidation. It was too late for hedging or equivocating, but giving in still left him unsettled.

Once they were seated in a dim booth, Jo locked him with a serious look and said, "The last thing I want to do is hurt them, you know."

"Your parents?" John asked unnecessarily.

Jo nodded and lowered her eyes to the table, where she was fidgeting with a discarded straw wrapper.

"It's not as if I don't know what it's like where they're sitting," she added. "The waiting, and the worrying… It _sucks_ , and I wish there were some way I could spare them that."

John kept his mouth shut. For once he could tell his input was not required.

"But I need to do this," Jo pressed on. "I'm _going_ to do this."

John honestly thought she might be finished, but at last she raised her eyes, her gaze pinning him hard. A spark behind that look said she wasn't done yet.

"And I'm doing it with or without you," she said. "But personally? I'd rather not go it alone."

Something about those words hit John solidly in the chest, and it took him a long moment to sort through his reactions and figure out why. He already knew she was determined to hunt, after all. Why should this new assertion hit him so hard?

But the thing was, up until now she'd given no indication that she might strike out alone. It had been nothing but her stubborn requests to accompany him, and then there she'd been on his doorstep, turning up to tag along on his hunt like it was no big deal.

This was different.

This was Jo stepping up and telling John that, really, this had nothing to do with him. This was about _her_ calling, _her_ drive to hunt, and now that the possibility had been laid out before him, he didn't doubt for a second that she would strike out on her own.

She'd do it in a heartbeat.

There was nothing he could do to stop her, and right behind the precision strike of that revelation came another. Jo Harvelle was a grown woman—young, sure, but every inch an adult—and her decisions were her own.

John could stay close, he could protect her and watch her back, but he could never be truly responsible for her. That weight rested on her shoulders alone.

The weight lifting from his chest felt like a tangible force, bright and sudden, and it was only when Jo bumped her knee against his beneath the table that John realized how completely he'd let his thoughts carry him away.

"You okay?" she asked. She left her leg where it was, tucked against his, and her brow knit together in concern.

John smiled, genuine and warm, and said, "Yeah, I think I'm good."

She eyed him skeptically but finally went back to her chicken, muttering something under her breath about crazy old men.

 

 

**Epilogue**

Bill didn't kill him. Ellen obviously wanted to, but she didn't either.

Which wasn't to say things went down smoothly. It was about as rocky an unveiling as John could've imagined, and he'd spent plenty of time thinking up worst-case scenarios.

In the end, there'd been a shotgun, a near miss with a load of rock salt, and a streak of cussing so dark it left even John Winchester's experienced head spinning.

It maybe would've gone better if he'd actually _planned_ on filling them in—not _much_ better, but a little—but pure bad timing was never a good way for your best friend to discover you had something going with his only daughter. If John had a time machine, he wasn't precisely sure how he would arrange events. He just knew _something_ would go differently.

As things stood now, all he could do was wait.

"Well," said Jo, hopping up to sit beside him on the tailgate of his truck. "They _might_ speak to you again someday. They at least won't try and shoot you when you walk in the door."

"That's something, I guess," John muttered. He was parked almost half a mile down the road, around a bend and out of sight of the Roadhouse, and Jo must have hiked at a good clip to reach him this fast.

It made his chest hurt to think of the burned bridge that now stood between him and the Roadhouse. He could count his real friends on one hand, and Bill and Ellen had been some of his closest. The thought that maybe this was something he couldn't square with them left him feeling uncomfortably hollow, even with Jo sitting beside him.

He hoped he'd get a chance to make things right.

"I'm sorry," said John, just as a light mist of drizzle closed around them, making the gray landscape all the less pleasant.

Jo was silent for a long moment, pensive and still. Her eyes tracked the dirt, the horizon, the dull misting sky. When they finally locked on him, John knew she was about to say something important.

"You get that this is what I want, right?" she said. Her eyes were bright, a glinting intensity, and he couldn't look away as she continued. "I don't just mean the sex. I mean _you_. You're it for me, y'know? You're the one."

"Sweetheart, there's no such thing," John heard himself say. He was surprised coherent words had come out of his mouth, considering his brain was having a tough time tracking this conversation in the first place.

Jo actually rolled her eyes at him, exasperated and disbelieving, before she locked him in a repeat of that same steady gaze.

"I don't mean literally, jackass," she said. "I just mean… What we've got? It's not some meaningless fling, okay? At least not for me. And if that's still all it is for you, then you'd better tell me right the fuck now, because I need to walk away while I can."

And John knew all that. He knew it from the way she looked at him, the way she opened up for every kiss and touch, the way she yelled and stormed when he threw himself face first at danger and left her with those empty, terrified minutes of wondering if he was okay. Hearing it said aloud sent his pulse pounding too loudly in his ears, but he still _knew_.

And he knew in the same steady, unmistakable way, that if she walked away now it just might kill him.

"It's more than that for me, too," he said. He hoped it was enough, because he didn't think for a second he'd be able to put into words all the things she deserved to hear. Christ, this girl was something else. John couldn't, to save his soul, figure out what she was doing with _him_. But he was selfish enough to hold onto her anyway.

"Good," she said, apparently satisfied. Her eyes were warm, and despite the explosive stress of the last few hours, there was a small smile playing at the corner of her mouth. "Glad we worked that out."

She kissed him, quick and affectionate, and then hopped to the ground.

"Come on," she said. "Let's get out of here for awhile. Maybe if we come back in a week they'll have cooled down a little."

John forced a smile and followed, not caring that he had no idea where they were going. It wouldn't be the first time he'd gotten behind the wheel without a solid plan. Maybe they could meet up with Dean. His son never failed to keep him up to date on his itinerary when they were apart, and John knew he'd find his son in Arizona right now. Arizona seemed like as good a destination as any.

"Need to stop for anything?" John asked as the engine roared to life.

"Nope," said Jo, settling comfortably back and kicking her feet up onto the dashboard. "Got everything I need right here."

"Good," said John, and started driving.


End file.
